Paradise Island
by Tetsuo Wolfe
Summary: ok so now chapter two is up yaaaas hope u guys and gals enjoy
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: i do not own jurassic park, any of it charaters or islands ( would be fucking quality if i did though )

Soooo this is my first ever fic and i hope you enjoy

Puryt plz review : D ( i asked nicely )

**Chapter One - A Stranger's Proposal**

The barman paused as the doors swung open, revealing a thin man wearing a black suit with no tie. He seemed oddly out of place in the small bar, and the barman noticed that the stranger's top button of his shirt was undone. He seemed particularly uncomfortable with the heat. The stranger gave the barman a cursory nod before slowly, the well-dressed man looked around the small bar. His eyes lingered on a man hunched over the bar further down. It had been almost impossible to find this place, and now that Lewis Peterson had arrived, he realised that it was the perfect place for a well-known hunter to hide. It was close to the Amazon rainforest, which meant easy access for the hunter, and yet far enough away from society for very few people to come to it.

"What do you want?" the barman asked, towel slung over his shoulder.

Carefully, Peterson headed to the man leaning on the bar. There were at least a dozen empty beer glasses next to the man, and a cowboy hat perched on his head, hiding his face from Peterson's view and Peterson was sure he knew what face would be under the hat.

"Is… anyone sitting here?" he asked, nervously.

The man didn't move, and Peterson took in the man's ruffled appearance. The once white tank top the man wore was now stained brown in places and there were several tears along the man's side. His shorts weren't any better. The pockets were worn through and stretched, with even more stains, only this time, the stranger was sure that these stains weren't mud from trekking through the jungle. About the only part of the man that didn't seem over-used were the near pristine sandals the man wore. Peterson forced himself not to step back from the strong smell emanating from the man, he had finally managed to track himself hunter, and he was not going to loose him.

"Excuse me?" Peterson tried again, this time eliciting a groan from the man.

His hand twitched, then reached out and grabbed the nearest glass. Peterson slid into the seat next to the man and watched him tilt the glass to his lips.

"Are you a hunter?" Peterson asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

The man paused then, and set the empty glass down on the table. For a moment, Peterson thought he was going to leave, but the man looked over at the barman, who served up another glass of cheap beer.

"I have a proposal for you," Peterson said, leaning in closer to the man.

"Not interested," the man said, and gulped down the entire glass in one go.

"Actually, I think you will be," the stranger said. "You're currently on a hunting trip, am I right? Hunting jaguars out in the rainforest?"

"Tagging," the man corrected, breathing out a sigh. "These days killing a jaguar is worse than killing your own parents, everyone knows that. And I said, I'm not interested."

"Then at least hear me out," Peterson tried, moving as close to the man as he could.

"You've got until I finish my next beer," the man told him, tilting the glass he had just finished to the barman.

"You have hunted almost every animal on the face of this world," Peterson began, and eyed the rapidly disappearing beer. "Except maybe one. A dinosaur."

The man's eyes glanced to Peterson's face, before he finished the glass and placed it on the bar in front of him. "There are no such thing as dinosaurs anymore, they died out millions of years ago."

Peterson raised an eyebrow at the man's certainty. "Are you sure?"

"Isla Sorna does not exist," the man answered. "It is simply a rumour, a myth, a legend or what ever you want to call it."

"I can assure you," Peterson said, reaching into his pocket and extracting a thin wad of paper. "Dinosaurs truly exist, and so does the island of Isla Sorna. It was no cover up."

The man looked down at the photographs Peterson had put in front of him. Peterson watched the man's face, searching for anything, but this man was well-versed in hiding his emotions. A hunter's need to be, particularly if they come across a lethal animal in the wild and need to convince it that they are neither food nor prey.

Peterson's eyes ticked to the man's cheek, and the man's eyes narrowed. For a moment, Peterson thought that the man was going to leave, but instead he flicked the photographs away and raised his glass to the barman, signalling for another beer. Dutifully, the barman brought a fresh glass and began clearing the others away.

The doors swung open, bouncing against the wall, and several men entered. Peterson turned and glanced at them as they made their way to the bar. The barman stood back, washing out a glass as the group proceeded to make themselves at home in one of the booths at the back of the small establishment.

The barman placed the glass on the bar and knocked the wall. A woman with a white apron on came though the door at the back of the bar and headed to the booth the men were in. From the fact that they were speaking rapidly in what Peterson could only assume to be Spanish, or some form of it, he guessed that they were locals, and from the look on the woman's face, they were also regulars.

"What would you all like" the young woman asked, a pad of paper and a pen in her hands.

The first man, already half drunk replied, slurring his words slightly as he looked her up and down. "Some of your ass, bitch," he said, reaching out for a feel.

The woman rolled her eyes and smoothly moved out of reach, "To drink…" she clarified.

A more sober man, sitting opposite his friend, shook his head ruefully. "Sorry about him, he's a bit drunk already. And the drinks will be six pints of your finest lager and a whisky, no ice."

As the sober man finished talking the drunken man lunged at the woman, grabbing her roughly round the waist and pulling her to his knee. She screamed in surprise and immediately began to fight against him, but he was too strong, and held on tightly.

"Hey boys looks like I've pulled for tonight" the man laughed at his friends. Two of the others laughed as well, as the sober man shook his head again.

The barman leaned close to Peterson and whispered. "Do you think your friend could help my daughter get away from those men? Because if you do you can get free drinks tonight."

Peterson turned to ask the hunter but he was gone. Surprised at the man's swift and silent departure, Peterson turned back to watch the girl to see if she was ok but the hunter stood next to the table, blocking his view of the drunken men. He appeared to be talking to the drunks, and Peterson noticed the girl was standing behind the hunter, a scared look on her face.

" You, my drunken friend, are a pig," said the hunter, glaring down at the others.

"Who the fuck do you think your talking to, shrimp?" the man replied, his voice starting to rise in anger.

"Well let me ask you something, how many of you people are drunk?" asked the hunter politely, not giving the man time to answer him. He glanced round the bar, at the barman's grim face, Peterson's surprised look and at the terrified girl standing beside him. He turned back to the man, "It looks like it's just you, so I would say that I'm talking to a drunk man."

The man got to his feet, unsteady but angry and swung a fist that could have been a punch had he been sober at the hunter. The hunter's calm face seemed to move so slightly to the left in the man's vision, enough for the man to wander whether he'd thrown his fist in the right direction. Scowling, he pulled his hand back, shoved his shirt up his arm - exposing a black tattoo - and threw another punch. This time though, the hunter didn't move, merely brought his hand up, grabbed the man's tattooed arm, turned and threw him to the ground. He landed in a roll and cracked his head on the bar.

"Don't start what you can't finish, boy," the hunter laughed cruelly, a cold glint in his eye as he stared down at the man.

"Am gonna finish you right now," replied the man, spitting on the floor as he stood. He leaned against the bar, glaring drunkenly at the now smiling hunter.

"Try me," dared the hunter.

The man threw himself at the hunter, a knife suddenly appearing in his hands. Surprise didn't even flicker across the hunter's face - he had predicted this move from the start - and he was ready for it. He sidestepped the man's swing, just like he had done before, grabbed the man's arm once more, only this time, instead of throwing the man to the floor - and possibly onto the knife - his hand came up and the heel of his palm slammed into the man's face, shattering his nose.

Blood sprayed everywhere as the man fell to the floor and the hunter turned away, wiped his face with the back of his hand and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Sighing, he headed over to the bar, picked his hat up and placed it back on his face.

"Hey shithead!" one of the man's friends yelled.

The hunter turned, glared at the men, and then looked down at the man lying on the floor. Heaving another sigh - tonight looked like it wasn't ever going to end - he turned back to the men and removed his hat.

"KO!" he declared, holding his arms wide. He tilted his head to one side, "Anyone else wanna fight?"

The light flickered over the man's features, highlighting his face a sick yellow in colour, and making the pink scar stand out even more. The other men's eyes widened in recognition and they hastily apologized, grabbed their friend by the ankles, and - not even bothering to pick him up - dragged him out of the bar. The doors banged shut behind them.

Peterson sat in shock at what this man had done. First he makes fun of a drunk man, fights said drunk man with a smile on his face, and then knocks them out with one damned punch. The hunter reached past Peterson to his last glass of beer and downed it. He thanked the barman, who simply nodded, not asking for money after promising him free drinks. Peterson turned to the hunter, who was almost at the door.

"So then, Mr…er…hunter, are you interested in the job?" asked Peterson, tentatively.

"My name isWolfe," said the hunter, and disappeared through the doors.

Peterson quickly stood and followed, hoping that Wolfe hadn't gone too far. Once outside the bar, he looked around, and found Wolfe leaning against a large pick-up truck. The dim light filtering from the bar fell far from where Wolfe was, and Peterson couldn't help but shiver as Wolfe took out a large hunting knife and looked at it in the dark. Moonlight glinted off the blade.

"So!" Peterson called, reluctant to leave the safety of the light. "Are you interested?"

Wolfe didn't say anything, but placed the knife back wherever it came from and stepped towards the American. He stared at Peterson for a moment, his eyes searching for something, and Peterson felt his own gaze drawn to the strange scar on Wolfe's cheek.

Wolfe raised a finger, "I have on condition," he stated.

Peterson's face broke out into a brilliant grin. "So you'll come? I promise you-"

"One condition," Wolfe repeated, and glared down at Peterson until Peterson caught on that he needed to hear the hunter out, otherwise there would be no deal.

"What is it?"

"I bring my own gear," Wolfe stated, and climbed into his truck.

"That's fine with me," Peterson agreed, grinning again. Wolfe started the engine, and Peterson was forced to leave the light as he stepped closer to the vehicle to tell the hunter one last thing. "The plane leaves in a week from San Jose airport! At four pm."

Wolfe nodded and Peterson watched him pull away. Once he was out of sight, Peterson reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. It was answered on the first ring.

"Boss, I have good news!"

"So tell me and stop fucking around."

Wisely, Peterson told him, "I got us Andy Wolfe, the hunter."

"I know who Andy Wolfe is, you little shit, and he had better show up or your ass is grass and I will be the lawnmower."

Peterson couldn't stop shaking as his boss ended the call. Once his brain registered the dial tone in his ear, he let out the breath he had been holding and headed over to his own battered rental car, climbed in and drove off. Still shaking, he loosened his tie and prayed that Andy Wolfe would show up the following week. It had taken long enough to find the famous hunter, he only hoped that all the searching would be worth it.

well that is the end of chapter on now can you please review ( i am obsessed with this review thing ainta )


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclamer:** i do not own jurassic park or any thing that belongs to it ( would be fucking qualitly if i did tho)

**--------------------------------------------------**

**Paradise Island**

**Chapter two - The Plane Journey **

Peterson tugged his tie down as he stood in the boiling shade beneath the modified Tri-Star. He pulled back the shirt on his three-hundred-dollar suit to glance at his one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Rolex. Wolfe was almost ten minutes late, and Peterson was beginning to get jumpy. If the hunter didn't show up within the next five minutes, they would either have to leave without him or abandon the expedition. He hoped to high heaven that it would not have to be the latter, his boss would not be happy with that.

The door above opened and a large tanned head poked out. "Hey! When's this guy getting here?"

Peterson looked up at the man half-leaning out of the plane and was about to answer when the sound of an engine echoed from the other end of the airstrip. He turned and watched as the truck he'd seen a week before took a short cut across a grass verge and skidded to a stop thirty feet away.

"That him?" the tanned man asked, frowning as a figure climbed out of the truck and started grabbing bags out of the back.

Peterson breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, that's him. Thank God," he muttered under his breath as he stepped out into the heat and made his way towards the hunter.

"You're late," he stated, coming to a stop next to Wolfe.

Wolfe dropped a tool box almost on Peterson's feet. "You never said which strip," he offered in way of an excuse. Reaching into the back again, he grabbed a combat vest and a large backpack. A second, smaller backpack already sat next to the truck's back wheel.

"My apologies," Peterson muttered, silently cursing his mistake. "We need to leave soon, so if you could just follow me, then we'll be off."

Wolfe glanced up at the plane, noting the two engines either side, plus the one that sat on top. Odd, he thought, Tri-Star's don't have five engines. Shaking his head, he picked up the large backpack and slung it over one shoulder, with his other hand, he grabbed the toolbox, vest and small backpack and headed off after Peterson.

"I'm er… glad you decided to come," Peterson said once he reached the bottom of the steps.

Wolfe pushed past and began trudging up the steps. "Whatever," he muttered under his breath. This stupid heat was really starting to piss him off. He hated hot countries, particularly when they were hot. God damn it, this heat was getting to him.

The tanned man stepped back to let the hunter past. Wolfe nodded his head at the other man and made his way towards the nearest seat. He dumped his toolbox on his left as he passed a seat and sat down on the one opposite it, setting down his large backpack beside him.

"Oi! Fuckshit, do you mind?"

He glanced up at the sound of the woman's voice and found himself looking at a pair of annoyed emerald eyes. The woman was looking left at him, slouching in her seat against the window with her legs on the one next to her. She was wearing a white shirt over a brown t-shirt and khaki pants with brown boots resting lightly on the armrest. Her hair was hidden under a green baseball cap which partly shadowed her eyes.

It was then that he noticed why she was glaring at him. His stuff was on her legs.

"Er… sorry," he said, reaching across and moving his stuff from her legs, to the floor next to the seat. He noticed a brown satchel with letters printed on it and duffle bag next to the window seat. The letters, of which he could only read three were RIS. He assumed it was some kind of name but shook it off and sat back in his seat. "So…"

"Do not say anything," she warned, and he noticed she was holding something in her hands. Something that looked a lot like a GameBoy from the old days. Her fingers moved rapidly over the buttons, her head started to move closer and closer to the screen until she snapped back, feet kicking at the armrest. "ASSHOLE!"

Wolfe sat back, alarmed, as she glared at the game, gritting her teeth together. She must've noticed him staring at her, because she turned and cast an ice-cold glare his way.

"See what you did, asswipe, you made me fucking lose!"

"Er…" Wolfe muttered as she turned back to her game. "No problem."

"Shithead," she muttered, turning again back to her game.

Wolfe raised an eyebrow and out the corner of his eye as the tanned man sat down across the aisle from him. He smirked and raised a hand in greeting.

The tanned man nodded his head in return and said, "You're Wolfe, right?"

"Yeah," Wolfe replied, reaching down for his small backpack.

"My name's Roberto Hernandez," the tanned man replied.

"Just call him Bobby," the woman said, glancing up from her game. Roberto flipped her the finger. She turned her GameBoy on one side and Wolfe heard a small click come from it. Her fingers flew over the buttons and she turned it round a second later. There was a picture of Roberto wearing a 18th century dress doing a break dance on the screen.

Wolfe smirked and tried to hide it. Roberto lunged for her, only to be shoved back by one kick from her feet. He immediately doubled over, falling onto the seat behind him and trying to curl into a ball to protect his sore stomach.

"Big baby," she muttered under her breath, turning back to her computer.

"Er… What did you just do?" Wolfe asked, confusion on his face.

The woman grinned at him and held up her foot. The underside of her boots were covered in spikes. "They're ice-claw boots," she explained, "Designed for heavy duty rock climbing. And they also happen to be my favourite set of shoes."

"Ya think?" Hernandez asked, attempting to sit up winded.

"Well, I'm sorry, hon, they wouldn't let me bring my stilettos."

Wolfe watched the exchange with mild amusement, eyebrows raised in amazement. Hernandez winced again and looked down at his stomach, which was visible through the numerous holes in his shirt. Blood was starting to stain the material. The woman hid her face behind the computer screen, but Wolfe could see the grin that she was wearing.

"Okay, people!" Peterson called as he entered the cabin. "We're almost ready for take-off. I hope you are all ready and prepared for this trip."

"Wouldn't be here if we weren't," the woman grumbled under her breath. Wolfe fought to suppress his own grin again as she continued to play on the GameBoy.

"Excuse me!" Peterson sounded annoyed. Wolfe turned back to him to see he was glaring at the woman - who was ignoring him - and did not look amused at her behaviour. He placed his hands on his hips and Wolfe had the feeling he was going on a school trip and Tetris was the miscreant. Peterson rolled his eyes when she continued to ignore him and called out, "MARIAH!"

A seven inch hunting knife embedded in the wall right above him sticking his straw hat to it. Both Hernandez and Wolfe turned at the same time to see the woman glaring at Peterson like he was the biggest shit she'd ever seen. Every muscle in her body was frozen in place and when she moved, it was with a predatory grace that left all three men feeling like she was about to kill them.

Very carefully, one foot in front of the other, she began to approach Peterson. When she reached him, she reached up slowly and grasped the knife handle in one hand.

"If you ever, EVER, say that name again, Louie, I will fucking kill you." at this she removed the knife

Peterson swallowed, and nodded, shivering in his suit at the cold glint in her eyes. She pulled the knife out and held it at her side. Wolfe glanced down and saw that her knuckles were bone-white.

"Good boy," she growled at Peterson and stalked back to her seat.

Peterson didn't stop shivering for a minute. Hernandez and Wolfe looked at each other.

"O-Okay then, erm… let's get back on track shall we?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pad of paper. "Er… let's see, job assignments."

"What the fuck do we need job assignments for?" Tetris grumbled. "We already fucking know what we gotta do, so let's just fucking take off so we can fucking do it!"

Peterson stood trembling for a moment, his face turned paper white, before he spun round and disappeared into the cockpit. Tetris glared at the door for a moment and lifted the knife that was in her lap. A second later it appeared buried in the door.

Xxxxx

"Having trouble back there?" the co-pilot asked as Peterson shut the door behind him.

"Not really, everyone's getting on fine."

"Tough crowd to please, are they?" the pilot said, smirking over his shoulder.

"Can we just get going please, we're losing time here." Peterson sent a glare at the pilot's back. The navigator just grinned at him.

"Gonna warn 'em, chief?"

Peterson glared once again and settled into the chair opposite the young navigator.

Xxxxx

It was only after the woman had got up and retrieved her hunting knife that Wolfe even dared to breathe. He watched as she slipped the knife back into the satchel and placed it back on the floor with one hand, the other being occupied with the GameBoy. He frowned down at the bag, now having a clear view of the word written there and glanced back up at the woman, who had her back to the window and her legs up on the seat next to her.

"Tetris?" he read and looked up at her. Was that possibly her name? he wandered. She glanced across at him but said nothing. Hernandez made a hand gesture that was probably supposed to mean 'Drop it' or something like that. He ignored the other man and looked up at her. "That your name?" he asked.

"What about it?" she replied.

Without warning, the place lurched forward, sending Wolfe - who had not belted up - flying into the woman - who cursed - and Hernandez slammed back in his seat, head banging off the head rest.

"Aw, shit!" the Brazilian growled, bringing a hand up to rub his neck. He looked across and Wolfe and the woman, "What the fuck was that?"

The woman angrily shoved Wolfe off of her and stormed towards the door. Disoriented, Wolfe shakily got to his feet and glanced out the window to see the runway slowly disappearing beneath the plane.

"Assholes!" the woman shouted. Wolfe looked over at her and saw her glaring up at the sign over the door.

'SEATBELTS ON'

"They couldn't've told us that before?" Wolfe asked.

"No," the woman snorted and spun round to face him. "In case you haven't noticed, Peterson is a Grade-A asshole."

Still shaking, Wolfe scrambled across to his seat as the woman calmly walked back down the aisle with the grace and balance of a panther. She crouched next to Hernandez to check his neck before returning to her own seat and buckling up again. She raised an eyebrow when she noticed that Wolfe was sitting directly opposite her.

"Maybe you'd better sit next to me this time," she suggested. He could see in her eyes that if he argued he'd probably end up a dead man. "We wouldn't want any little accidents, now, would we?" her gaze dropped innocently to the satchel where the seven inch hunting knife was currently residing.

"Okay," Wolfe agreed immediately, carefully unbuckling and sliding across. For some reason, the plane was still tilted at a steep angle and he did not fancy smashing into the woman again. Once he was seated and buckled up, the woman slouched in her seat and put her feet up on the seat opposite her - his seat until he'd moved.

"You act like you've never flown before." Hernandez chuckled from across the aisle.

"I have," Wolfe replied, "But I'm not used to…"

There was another jolt, which sent everyone straight upwards two inches off their seats and the front end of the plane began to slope downwards. This made the seatbelts extremely uncomfortable for the men.

"What the hell is this?" Hernandez growled, craning his neck in a vain attempt to see through the door to the cockpit.

The woman sighed. Wolfe glanced over at her and saw that she was staring out the window. "Reggie's driving," she muttered. "You guys might wanna get comfy, he tends to do this when he gets bored."

Both men looked at her.

"This is the Captain speaking," a man's voice came over the intercom. "We appear to have hit a bit of turbulence so please get as comfortable as you can. This could take a while."

"I'll bet," the woman muttered. She picked up the GameBoy, turned it over and Wolfe watched her pull a wire out. At the end, barely visible, was a tiny microphone. She pressed one of the buttons and growled, "Oi, Reggie, you better hope to God we get outta here soon or else I'll be chucking your ass up and down the place just like at Boot."

"Y-Yes Ma'am, I m-m-m-mean, Sir er… shit," the pilot stammered in reply. "Sorry, Tetris," he said at last.

"Oh, it's alright Reggie," she told him, smiling sweetly although the pilot couldn't see her. "You're forgiven. Now can we please get back on course, I actually wanna make time on this one."

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied and the plane righted itself again.

-

"Did you have to do that?" Peterson asked, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"Course," Reggie replied, grinning at the other man's obvious discomfort.

-

"So, your name is Tetris?"

The woman glared at Wolfe, who just grinned back at her.

"Can I take that as a yes?"

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**please reveiw purty purty please**


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